


Causal Initiate

by curtailed



Series: Causal Martyrs [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Trollstuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:48:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23600323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtailed/pseuds/curtailed
Summary: Your name is FEFERI PEIXES.You've recently GOT YOUR ASS HANDED TO YOU by another heiress, and currently you're recovering in a roadside ditch, trying not to freak out that you're BLEEDING TO DEATH. You've noticed that SOMEONE IS COMING UP TO YOUR SPOT.You should probably do something about that, right?
Relationships: Aradia Megido/Feferi Peixes
Series: Causal Martyrs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698829
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	Causal Initiate

There's a couple myths floating about that seadwellers have innate healing powers, but somehow you're not too caught up on the lore on your third day in a ditch. Day one was crawling out of the sea bank, and Day two was commited to trying to breathe again. Day three is a relief day, you tell yourself, staring up at the sky.

Jegus, the _sky._

It's a pretty hue. You'd think that if you were back in your hive, surrounded by your cuttlefish and your tridents and whatnot, you'd appreciate it more -- but then again it's not exactly as resonant to you when you're miles and miles underwater. Still, it's currently a light pastel-pink flushed with a pale gold from the setting sun. Hopefully trolls don't travel this route, or else you're completely, wholesomely fucked. You're weaponless. You can barely move around on your own.

And you _lost._

It's been a strange mix of weeks, to say in the least. Kingdoms, politics, heirs, and here you are, trying to staunch the flow of blood spilling out from your guts. You think about pressing your fingers against the wound, but the image of your phalanges touching raw bleeding intestines makes you want to vomit instead. Your skin's tough -- tougher than any other troll except fuchsia -- yet now it's reduced to a membranous layer, barely holding your innards together. A wiggler could poke you and you'd be doomed.

_Powerless._

Weird, intrusive thoughts. The sky gets darker and darker, the worst of the sun slanting away into muted shadows, and a cool wind skims over your abdomen. Dying of a stomach wound is definitely one of the shittier ways to go. You didn't accomplish anything in your life, you never saved the landdwellers like you meant to, and now you're a literal roadkill carcass, vulneralbe to even the weakest of grubs.

Perfect.

You wait to die.

.

.

.

But since you don't, at least not immediately, you're subjected to hours of moon-gazing. Even below at your hive you could spot the moonbeams entering your window, distorted by the ripple of the sea. You know seadwellers can survive quite a bit of time without water, but then their skin begins crackling up and their gills dry. They won't _die,_ like you're doing right now, but it's meaningless to live without the ocean. You wonder what Eridan would say.

" _Waste of time, if you ask me._ "

Then you remember that you and him have separated a long, long time ago, and last you've heard of him he's out being a pirate with some ceruleanblood. You don't blame him. You never would worked out anyhow.

You do miss him occasionally, though.

You think about lying with your hands under your head, a classic resting position, but the effort to move your arms even a little has pain course up your spine. You stare up at the sky. Your heartbeat pounds slow and heavy and sonorously in your eardrums, each beat a little weaker than the previous one, a dying, steady metronome counting your breaths.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

It's almost like a clock. The air seems cooler, too, giving you a tiny amount of relief from the day's stifling heat. The stars are also visible; red and emerald stripes of starlight cluster around the pink moon, the green oddly vibrant and a tad bit unsettling. If you lived through this, you choose to go up to land more often. You're missing out on a few sights.

_One._

You did _not_ know someone could punch so fucking hard. You had drawn out your trident, ready to fling or stab or even block, but the other Heiress had simply _appeared_ before you --

_Two._

And socked you, _hard._ Spikened fists and all. The first blow you managed to endure, the second and third aimed directly at your guts, you could not. It felt like a whole building had been thrown at your stomach.

_Three._

And the _Void._ She had slammed her hand onto your sternum, palm-out, and then there was no sea, no water or air or any physical matter -- you hovered in this dark, terrible crawlspace of a life, in something even emptier than the deepest trenches, a place so bereft and lonely of life that you _couldn't stand it,_ not while your veins still pulsated blood and your brain was still held together by the strings of your skull. You might've been in there for a second. Or an entire eon. You don't know.

You don't want to know --

Your eyes shoot open.

You must have fallen asleep at some point -- you curse yourself, because that's the stupidest thing that you could do, but it's too late. There's -- there's a _low_ thrum of sound vibrating off the road, like some sort of vehicle, and it's heading your way. _Fast._

For a crazy moment you wonder if it's the other Heiress, ready to finish off what she started.

And then the thrum grows louder -- until it's an active whirring-grating of machine and metal scraping unpleasantly together crashing into your ears. That's another way of dying, you suppose. You hope they'll be quick about it.

The sound stops.

There _should_ be alarm bells ringing off in your head, accompanied by the faint sound of footsteps heading your way, something rustling and shifting like someone's trying to sneak through grass, but you don't bother turning your head. You don't want to beg or plead for your life. A face swarms before you, shadowed by the moonlight above, and from your angle they look ten feet tall. You haven't bothered mopping up the excess blood. They'll know you're fuchsia.

You gaze back up at them.

And you wait.

Nothing stabs you. Nothing breaks your neck. You and the troll continue to stare at each other, and dimly you can start recognizing shapes and outlines. The outward-curving spiraling horns. A thick curtain of hair -- almost considerable in mass to your own -- pooling around their shoulder and back. Rust irises glimmering in the moonlight.

_Rustblood._

"Wow," the troll finally speaks, jolting you back to your senses. The voice is female. "I don't think I'm running a blind operation here, because I think I'm looking at _fuchsia blood_ right on the ground. Correct me if I'm wrong."

You can still speak, to your black-comedic amusement.

"Yeah," you rasp back. You might as well throw in your death plea. "Make it quick, okay? Don't make it hurt."

"Can I say that your guts look like they're about to burst?"

"They _are_ about to burst." You feel like if you speak one more word you'll probably pass out. You clam your mouth shut instead, resigning yourself to the passivity of unconsciousness. You can't even feel fear, with how deprived of life you are. 

_If she's an adult rustblood, she must have psychics, right? She should be able to stop my heart._

What you _don't_ expect is a warm, staticky cocooning of energy that carefully envelopes your body, lifting you up from your puddle of blood and sweat. Reflexively you claw out, trying to break free of the energy lattice, but the sudden motion has you gasp in tears of pain. Sharp, stinging waves collide in your skull, and you feel like you're about to be strangled. Your body can't handle gravity right now.

"Sorry," the troll says, not sounding sorry at all. You're lowered on what feels like a platform. You raise your head a little and discover that you've somehow been placed in a cart attached to a...

"It's _not_ a motorcycle," the rustblood grits out, tossing her hair behind her shoulder and roughly tying it up. Blood clots your vision. "It was actually a gift from my ex-matesprit -- not that we were close in the first place, since he kind of had a fetish for -- anyways. Fuchsiablood. You're under my care now, alright?"

Your thoughts are blurring, like oil spilled in water.

"Try not to fall out." And the motorcycle's revving up again, and you notice silvery-rust sparks lacing over the wheel's axels, and then it's _off._ The air blurs around you, wind whipping sharply at your face and hair and ragged clothes, yet somehow you're able to finally pass out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there. This is a new fic I'm planning to work on, and it will have multiple parts. The first part will be concerned with Aradia and Feferi. Future chapters are rated E for graphic violence, sex, swearing, and in general very mature themes. You've been warned.
> 
> Most of the elements are actually drawn from "causal martyr" but the narrative is quite different. If you like what you're reading so far, don't forget to leave a comment.


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